


Agent Cooper

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Spy (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, No I won't tell you who, Susan Cooper in another time, This idea would not leave me alone, Yes someone dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the best man for the job... is a woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode 1: Curtain Up!

**Author's Note:**

> After binge (re) watching S1 of Agent Carter, I started noticing a lot of parallels with Susan Cooper in SPY. Then I remembered that the original title was Susan Cooper, although I think SPY is far superior. But in homage to that and my delightfully brassy badass Brit, here comes Agent Cooper.  
> The plot bunnies really wouldn't leave me alone on this one.
> 
> P.S. This is starting at a G-rating; that... might change.  
> Also, I'm not nuts about the tag - even though it *is* from the show- so feel free to suggest something else.

8pm at the Camelot Club and the party was in full swing. Harry James’s cousin was doing an admirable job running his knock-off orchestra, and the band was hotter than one of Rosie’s rivets. Skirting the jammed dancefloor was Bradley Fine, dressed to kill in a Brooks Brothers floor model. A few of the dames swooned as his grin hit them like a Mickey and he neatly sidestepped the carnage to slip through a small door, unnoticed as some of the bolder gents in the stag line rushed to their aid.

The hidden hallway was close quarters, and Fine tried not to grimace at whatever might be coating the walls ending up on his suit. Checking the small map on his cuff, he turned left, right, left, left, right again, and finally down the second tunnel to the right. “And straight on til morning,” he quipped as a metal door loomed at the far end. His Webley Vickers was snug in his palm as he fitted his hand to the doorknob, took a deep breath and stepped in.

Carousel horses draped in flowing fabric stood sentry in the corners, and shields professionally faded with rust broke up green and grey wallpaper stamped with knights– a continuation of the club’s Arthurian décor, even if Fine would lay a fiver no one who saw the inside of _this_ room cared much about aesthetics. Seated alone at the head of an honest to goodness round table sat Tihomir Boyanov – a Commie who’d made more than good out of a few very bad businesses. He had one kid – a daughter stashed in some Swiss boarding school – and rumor had it the girl was being groomed to step into her dad’s wingtips. A woman running the bad boys of Midtown – _that’d be the day._ For now, he had bigger fish to fry.

“Evening, Boyanov.” The man in question looked up, not betraying a hint of surprise at the intruder in his midst.

“Don’t move a muscle.” Boyanov rose slowly, completely at his leisure as he strolled around the table without a word. Perching on the near edge, he regarded Fine with a cold perusal through a haze of expensive cigar smoke. Fine tightened his grip on his pistol and leveled it at Boyanov’s chest.

“Alright, reach for the skies.” Boyanov tapped off his cigar ash and grabbed another deep lungful, blowing a perfect ring in the agent’s direction. It coiled around his gun barrel like a winning shot at a carnival, and Fine shook it off - along with his burgeoning annoyance. “We know you stole a doomsday device from some hotshot in the War Department. You’ve been looking for a buyer, and I’m here to tell ya you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think we’re gonna let it out of the country. Now,” he had Tihomir’s pupil firmly in his sights, “you got til the count of 10 to tell me where it is.”

A laugh like an unoiled hinge echoed through the chamber. “The count of 10?” Boyanov’s already thick accent was colored with amused incredulity. “Unless _you_ are the Count of 10 Brr-aaad-lee Foine, I think I will not tell you. You see, I know I am the only one who knows where is the device. And if you kill me, you will never get it back.”

Fine injected some mild delight into his own expression. “If you’re the only one who knows where it is, then it’s someplace safe and it’ll stay there if you die. My government would consider that an acceptable loss, if it means no one can get their mitts on something that could wipe Manhattan off the map.”

Boyanov’s face turned cold as an 81 Irving Place grotesque. “It could do much more than that. The catalyst for a world war in the palm of your hand? Even your government would like such a thing, I think. And while the device is someplace safe – for now – if I do not retrieve it in three days, the  mechanism your dear Professor Stark created will detonate itself and,” he made a smooth motion, as though wiping clean a slate, then wiggled his fingers in a crude salute, “Good night, New York.” The sudden smile that wreathed his face through the smoldering perfume chilled Fine to the core. “So I think perhaps time is on my side, after all.”

“Yeah well that’s what you think, ya Red Ahhhh- **CHOO!** ” A deafening sneeze masked the gunshot, but not the smoking hole that appeared where Boyanov’s forehead had been previously.

The corpse hit the hardwood just as a disbelieving gasp broke through the burst of static at his wrist. “Jeepers creepers, Fine! What’d you shoot him for?!”

Pressing the buttons on his short-wave Hamilton, he lifted the face to his mouth and replied. “It’s not my fault, Coop. There’s a ton of pollen in here – all these decorative bouquets, he must keep half the greenhouses in Jersey in fertilizer.”

“Well, what are you gonna do now?”

“I… have no idea.”

 _This is decidedly_ not _the time for honesty,_ Susan thought as she snapped open the blueprints of the Camelot Club and slid a red-polished pointer along a plausible escape route. “Okie-doke. Go to the horse in the blue and gold drape and push back his ears.”

“What?!” Bradley looked at his wristwatch in blank shock.

“Cheese and crackers, Fine – just do it!”

Tucking his gun into the holster and his tongue behind his teeth, Fine ran to the horse in the corner and pushed back its ears. A soft _click_ , a mechanical whir, and a panel in the wall slid open. “Huh,” was all Fine said before he rushed through.

“Now go… right.” Dim lighting dotted the ceiling like weary stars, and he turned and started down the hidden tunnel. “Your _other_ right, Fine.” He wheeled on his heel with a huff and headed off the other way. “Keep a hand on the wall – looks like there should be a catch about…” Little muttering calculations preceded the rest of the order. “30 yards from the door.”

His fingers brushed through cobwebs and grime until a little bump interrupted the roughhewn stone. Fine pushed and a crack of light appeared ahead with a pop. Giving his lapels a little tug, he swaggered through the opening – and found himself face to face with a fist worth of hired meatheads. “Uhhh… Coop. I got a little company, if you’re not too busy.”

“Not exactly sure what you want me to do from here, Fine.” Well, she had a point there.

The sound of fists meeting flesh and things smashing was peppered with a few groans until Fine’s voice returned, a little winded but definitely conscious.

“Alright, time to blow this fruit stand. How am I getting home?”

The coordinates for the rendezvous were on the pad at Susan’s elbow, neatly outlined in swirly hearts and doodles of Fine’s name. She blushed as she read them, but of course he didn’t have to know that.

He’d made the first turn towards freedom when a late-blooming bodyguard showed up, swallowing back the last of his club sandwich and dabbing at the mustard on his chin with his tie. It actually improved the pattern.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

“Whoa, easy, pal.” Fine put his hands up at a calculated angle of seeming supplication. “Took a wrong turn looking for the john. Got a racehorse ready to run, if you catch my drift.”

The goon sized him up, then indicated the door to his left. “Down the hall, second door to the right.”

“Thanks, pal.” Fine had just set a hand on the knob when the thug called out.

“Wait a minute. What’s that on your wrist?”

“A watch.”

“Don’t look like no timekeeper I ever seen.”

“It’s a… prototype. Wrist radio. Gonna be a real hot seller this Christmas.”

“Baloney. Lemme see.”

Fine obligingly pushed a few buttons and wound the knob on the right. Susan grabbed a lozenge wrapper and a coffee mug and made the appropriate foley art for static and the sultry tone of a late night radio announcer. “Kkkkkrrrrrcch- and welcome back to WSPY. We’re going throwback for a minute as we remind you, it’s _Easy Come, Easy Go_.” A suitable musical strain floated over the actual airwaves of Susan’s radio as she began crooning the lyrics to the hit from a few years past.

Suitably impressed by the gadget, Bright Boy pressed Fine for contact information. Fine offered him a pseudonym that worked the electronics department at Gimbel’s, with a promise to see him the first of November.

“What kinda nutball starts their Christmas shopping the day after Halloween? At least put it off til Thanksgiving.” Bright boy left muttering about what the world was coming to with early holiday infringement, and Fine let out a sigh of relief that was echoed by Susan.

“Coop, I could kiss you.”

Momentarily dazzled at the idea, Susan managed a semi-serious reply. “Well, I would accept that… with an open mouth. Ha ha,” she chuckled weakly at the dead air that met her attempt.

Five tense but uneventful minutes later, Fine was on his way to the rendezvous point and Susan breathed a sigh of relief. “That was close.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Coop. Dinner’s on me when we get back.”

“Sounds good. Uh, Fine?”

“Yeah, pal?”

“Could we maybe skip the automat this time?”


	2. Episode 2: A New Sheriff In Town

The next morning, Susan woke cheerily, humming a Benny Goodman hit while rolling on her stockings and pinning up her hair. Makeup carefully applied, she donned a royal blue suit over a pressed white blouse, and set a cherry red Stetson Stratoliner trimmed with a patriotic ribbon atop her neatly pinned curls. Strapping into a pair of Oxfords with a sensible three inch heel, she tucked her oversized envelope clutch under one arm, grabbed a special surprise and headed out.

The lobby of the Liberty Bell Co. was packed like always, but Susan shimmied her way through the crowd to the last elevator in the bank and pressed the button marked Administration. A quiet ascent gave her a moment to think, and all too soon she was stepping out into the heart of the building. A wink to the uniformed guard seemingly keeping watch over a broom closet and Susan entered her real place of business.

A line of girls sat at a switchboard, busily working the wires to connect the company to the rest of the world. At the far end of the long desk sat Molly, a sweet curvy brunette in tortoiseshell cateyes who dressed with fashionable sense and kept the lines running. Affectionately referred to as Susan’s twin, she supposed there was a bit of a resemblance – although her tresses were more a honeyed auburn and her demeanor far more mousy than the outspoken queen of efficient communication. Still, Molly was kind and they both appreciated the sweeter things in life, evidenced by the covered plate of homemade scones and jam Susan slid into place atop Molly’s end of the board.

“Good morning, Molly.”

“Morning, Susie Q. Oh, how sweet of you!”

“Nah- just a little something for you and the girls. How’s tricks?” she asked, indicating the wall of blinking lights that closely resembled a night in Times Square.

“Lot of hubbub today, Sue. That DC line is hot.” Molly worked her magic, appearing to an outsider to be connecting a three way call between DC, Miami and Hoboken but in fact unlocking the door Susan now waited in front of. “By the way,” she paused, one hand on a large red switch. Susan turned to regard her. “Love the hat.”

Susan threw her a smile as Molly threw the switch, and the wall slid apart long enough for Susan to slip through before Molly reset the switch, unplugged the wires and picked up a particularly screechy patch-in from Honolulu.

The office was more hopping than a bullfrog convention. News of Fine’s daring escape and imminent arrival was blending with the usual office chatter to create a companionable din, the air almost electric with anticipation. Ignoring the hospital grade sludge the agents usually made for themselves in the large stainless carafe by the door, Susan headed to her own little cafetiere hidden in the corner of the conference room and brewed a little batch of heaven. A few sips gave her strength before she gathered up an armful of files and headed to her desk to get to work.

After an hour, Nancy B. Artingstall – a skyscraping British import and Susan’s best friend – appeared by her desk lamp. Tall enough in stocking feet to look down on a lot of men (but nice enough not to), Nancy couldn’t find a dressmaker below 9th Street willing to accept the sartorial challenge her frame presented, and so tended to show up at the office in gauzy shirtsleeves under tailored vests and matching slacks. She worked in Special Projects on the fourteenth floor, far above the madding crowd but close enough to nip out to lunch on the odd weekday, and always on hand with the latest gossip from the admin offices just down the hall.

They’d been chatting for a few minutes, Susan waiting for Nancy to drop whatever bombshell she’d come to deliver, when Fine swept in at five past 9 with all the usual pomp and cheer, making a beeline for Susan’s desk and swiping her coffee for a quick sip before perching on the edge. “Hey, pal.”

Trying to keep her face a few degrees under beaming, Susan glanced up at him through her lashes. “Hi, Fine.”

“Have you heard the shake?” Susan shook her head slowly. “Seems we’re getting a new boss, since Baker took that hit to the noggin.”

 _Cheese and crackers- I just finished proving myself to the last one._ “Who’s it gonna be?”

Nancy jumped in, face aglow with elation. “It’s just the buzz on mine – quite exciting, actually – but I’ve heard… Crocker.”

A chorus of murmurs and gasps broke out like the wind-up at a Yankee game. “Crocker?!” “No way!” “Supposed to be a real ball-buster.” “Hey, good news for you girls, huh?”

Susan couldn’t have gotten a word in if she tried and few of the agents would’ve paid attention anyway, so she happened to be the first to notice the strangers hovering by the side entrance.

A man in a suit so pressed you could’ve shaved with the creases walked through the swinging door, giving the room an assessing glare before stepping aside and holding the door for a tall, lean blonde dressed in a smart olive suit that was anything but drab. The tilted brim of her fashionable hat hid her features, but her shell pink lips were set in a grim hard line. Chatter halted as more people spotted the pair, and a few of the boys – Cress and Wright, going by the bluster and matching suits – strode over and offered a hand to the serious newcomer, elbowing his probable assistant out of their path.

“Mr. Crocker, sir. A pleasure to meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you,” they chorused.

“Can’t have heard that much,” the blonde piped up, the edges of a New England accent barely visible as her hat was snatched off and tossed in a negligible arc to flawlessly catch the hat stand. The look in her newly revealed blue-gray eyes was… effective. “Or else you’d know _I’m_ Crocker.”

Cress recovered first. “Horse hockey. E.J. Crocker’s a legend – took down the Cloverleaf Gang over in Cincinnati from the inside in under a month.”

“It’s Elaine, and you bet your bippy I did. Maxie Green was a big fan of the rockin’ rumba. I went from dance instructor to personal assistant in less than a week. From there, it was easy.”

“Hard part was learning to dance.” Crocker’s head snapped up at the quiet quip, audible in the sudden silence.

“Who said that?” When no one claimed responsibility, she tried again – in a voice that could’ve stopped the Howling Commandos mid-charge. A small hand raised as a tentative landmark, identifying the speaker. “Stand up.” Not daring to look at anyone, Susan set aside her files and steno pad and complied. “Come here.” The short journey was completed on legs that felt like cooked spaghetti without too much of a betraying quiver. “Who are you?”

“S-ss-Susan. Cooper. Ma’am.”

“And just how did you know that, Susan Cooper?”

“You were limping a little when you came in and there’s a scar on your calf. Broken leg? Probably during that stint in the Ukraine?” The infinitesimal change in the incline of Elaine’s head counted as a nod, so Susan swallowed before continuing in a gushing rush. “You knew you had to catch Maxie’s eye as something other than a new tomato in the hothouse, and a dead hoofer wouldn’t cut the mustard. You woulda had three weeks out of the plaster to bone up, and I’m guessing you spent it all running numbers that would make a Broadway doll drop in her tracks. With a just healed fracture, no less. But it worked cause you got your man.” She caught her breath and held it as Elaine surveyed her carefully.

“Not bad, Cooper,” Crocker said, her tone a grey shade of begrudging admiration. Susan blinked, nodded, then slipped back to the fringe of the group. Elaine’s voice regained volume and that no-nonsense edge. “Alright. The device in question’s been missing for,” she snapped her wrist at an angle to read the delicate gold watch just under the cuff of her glove, “19 hours. Get out there and find it, people. Baxter, let’s go find my new office.”

Fine was soon hustled away by the boys, all pleading for details of the dolls at the party, leaving Susan heaving a longing sigh in his wake.

“Susan if you carry that torch any higher, they’re gonna have to ship you out to Ellis Island.”

Knocked out of her reverie by the apt remark, Susan felt her face flame under her pressed powder. “We just work together, Nancy.” Incident reports were never fascinating, but if it kept her from facing Nancy’s lingering consideration…

“Whatever you say, Lady Liberty.” A soft squeeze to her shoulder and Nancy disappeared to her work.

“Hey Coop!” Fine’s voice broke over the rackety clack of her typewriter, stilling her fingers over the keys.

“Yes?” she chirped hopefully, turning to spot his head poking around a door frame.

“The boys and I could use some joe in the conference room, when you can.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure thing.” Sipping down the last of her own cold cup, she headed for the break table, putting together a tray with only a little sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Work's been nuts and my health is in a decline. I spent this morning in the hospital and have been sleeping for the past several hours. Anyway...  
> Well, we're about to get into the meat of the story, but I have to ask. Is anyone even liking this?


	3. Episode 3: The British are Coming

There was a note on Susan’s desk the following morning when she arrived, looking brighter than she felt in a suit of lush cranberry and popping blue t-straps.

 _Crocker’s office, 9am._ A quick flick to the large wall clock confirmed she had a full twenty minutes before answering the summons, and she used five to knock back a cup of fresh brew. She almost hoped Fine or even Nancy would come rescue her, but she knew that without an emergency she couldn’t go against an order anyway.

At five til, she stood, hands fluttering a little as she smoothed a few non-existent wrinkles from her skirt and buttoned back into her jacket. She had time for one more steadying breath, then she headed off for Crocker’s office.

Baxter sat at the reception desk, doing something complicated with a folded bit of bright paper. When Susan approached, he set it in the top drawer and buzzed inside.

“Yes?”

A triple buzz was his only reply.

“Cooper’s here?” A single buzz, then a pause as she likely checked the clock, since the next thing Susan heard was, “I like a woman who’s on time. Send her in. And try the tiger next- I’m getting tired of cranes.”

Baxter stood and opened the door for her, and she slipped in with a soft word of thanks. Sunlight was streaming through every window in Crocker’s east facing office, lending her a backlit celestial air and making Susan blink. Crocker eyed her a moment, then reached back to pull the blinds directly behind her. As Susan’s vision cleared, little pops of color stood out against the dark polished wood of Elaine’s desk – sharp little birds in green and white and plum and a bold shade of pink. A bright blue creation perched on a stack of files, wide wing flaps folded up and back like it was about to take flight. Crocker cleared her throat and Susan glanced at her, startled.

“It’s called origami. He picked it up in Okinawa. I can’t get him to stop, but it keeps his hands busy and his mind off… certain things.”

“Plus you get free decoration for your office. Ma’am,” she added belatedly. “Ahem. You wanted to see me?”

Crocker pinned her with that gaze again, making her feel like a moth on a display board, then selected a folder without disturbing the blue bird. “This is everything we have on the Boyanov case. I’m reading you in and sending you out.”

The full weight of her words hit Susan like a ton of bricks, and her head snapped up so fast her neck popped. “Ma’am I can’t go out in the field.”

“Yes you can. I’ve seen your scores from the farm.”

Her fingers began kneading the edges of the folder. “Ma’am… I beat the instructor unconscious.”

“And as soon as he woke up, he gave you straight 9s on the course, and a special mention of your flawless neutralization technique.” Susan’s mouth fell open again, but Crocker pressed on. “Now, there’s a party tonight at Club Ariadne we suspect might be cover for a buy. You’re going in with Fine to pump the owner, Spider Allyn, for information.”

A wrinkle knit between Susan’s delicately penciled brows. “But… I thought Spider Allyn only liked willowy blondes.”

“No, no, that’s Spyder Raymond of Club Martinique. Spider Allyn grew up studying Italian Renaissance paintings – he’s got a particular pash for brunettes of a voluptuous nature.”

“I see.” Susan began contemplating how much a broken leg would really hurt when Crocker’s voice interrupted her plans for self-preserving mutilation.

“Cooper, I wouldn’t send you out if I didn’t think you could handle this. You’ll have Fine for backup, and I trust that you know what you’re doing. Now I just need _you_ to trust that we both know what we’re doing and you’ll be A-OK.”

Crocker took a few minutes more to run specifics and provide subtle bolstering to her underfed confidence and eventually waved her out following a double buzz from Baxter.

When Susan walked out, elated but slightly dazed, a large hand on her elbow stalled her progress back to her desk. Risking a glance at Baxter, she found him watching her with an unreadable expression – which was to say, perfectly normal. The moment lingered for nearly a minute before Susan dared a prompting query.

“Did you need something, Baxter?” He didn’t reply, but turned straight ahead and extended his hand. A delicate paper lily in a charming shade of lavender bloomed from his fist, shivering shakily on a wire stem. As soon as she grasped it he let go and began typing a report with impressive speed for someone only using two fingers.

“Thank you,” she managed as she headed back to the bullpen. She had to tell Nancy.

The stork-like analyst was already at Susan’s desk, hopping impatiently from brogan to brogan.

“Nancy, for Pete’s sake what is it?”

“I rushed down as soon as I heard. We’re getting Ford.”

“Stock in the company?”

Nancy’s eyes rolled impressively before she grasped Susan’s arm and leant in close. “No. **_FORD._** Apparently this is so big, MI6 is loaning him to us for the duration of the case.”

“Wow...” was all Susan could manage. She’d heard the stories of course, but to have the living legend here, in their house? It was Crocker all over again.

Eventually Nancy was called back upstairs, and Susan made a mental note to tell her about her assignment over lunch before getting back to work herself – attention divided between the Boyanov file and the stack of incident reports that needed typing. Finishing the last one in record time, she gathered the considerable lot in her arms to file just as Fine strolled over with a brick of his own.

He flashed that grin and eased the folders atop hers with a ‘thanks, pal’ before letting his now open arm be claimed by the giggling blonde in the hall. With a sigh and a quick redistribution of weight, Susan sidestepped around her desk and headed for the filing cabinets that lined one wall.

She’d made it 4 steps when Wright dropped a stack of files into her already laden arms and started to walk off. “Excuse me, Agent Wright. You seem to have dropped something,” Susan called out in a loud clear tone. A few people paused, as unused to hearing Susan speak like that as she was.

Wright swung around, giving a half-hearted smile. “Yeah but I’ve got all this work. And you’re so much better at… things like that,” he said, waving a hand at the stack.

“What sort of things, Agent Wright – the alphabet? I could teach you. Let’s start with words that begin with A.”

Wright swallowed at her unprecedented spine and walked back over, taking a little over half the files he’d dropped on her. He headed for the wall of cabinets and set the stack down, opening a drawer. Stifling a smile, Susan walked over, opening her own drawer and settling in the first of the heavy folders. After he’d made it through five files, Susan was about to take pity and tell him to at least alphabetize them so he didn’t have to keep popping up and down when Cress swept in, skidding to a stop at the bizarre sight of his partner… _filing._

“Wright? What the hell are you doing? Ford’s gonna be here any minute!”

Wright paused in the middle of an open drawer, shooting Susan a look. “Well, I was helping Coop and…”

“And nothing. _Ford_ is coming. We gotta get set up. Coop can finish those for ya, cantcha, Coop?”

Pressing her lips together, Susan got a rein on her temper. “Actually – ”

“See? It’s fine. Now come on!” Cress hauled away Wright by the elbow, who didn’t protest but at least had the decency to look apologetically over his shoulder. With a sigh, Susan reached for the leftover folders, slotting them in with her dwindling stack.

A few minutes later, a fit man in a grey checked suit slipped through the door, surreptitiously glancing around like he was casing the joint. Gauging his height against the doorframe she guessed he was at least half a foot taller, and though the suit hid it well, he had to be muscled like a circus man. She couldn’t say why, any more than she could’ve explained why her eyes refused to leave him, but somehow she just _knew_ this was Rick Ford.

No one else seemed to have noticed him, and the thought that she should head over and introduce herself flitted through Susan’s mind just as Crocker stepped through a door held by Baxter and called out to him.

“Ford, you randy bastard. How’ve you been?” She pressed a kiss to his five o clock shadow – despite it being not quite noon – and he engaged in a brief squeeze before replying.

“Well as can be expected, wot with you all losing some big bad. Other than that, good to see you, ducks.” He extended a hand to Baxter, who shook it calmly even as Ford called him ‘Iceman’ in a tone that must qualify as playful.

Crocker rolled her eyes and turned to address the room. “Alright, people – listen up. For anyone who doesn’t already know, this is Rick Ford. He’ll be joining us on the Boyanov case. Stay out of his way unless he needs you, and you’ll all be fine. Now, why don’t I leave you guys to get acquainted and we’ll talk later.”

“Only if the first round’s on me,” Ford promised with a smack to her cheek and turned to the room at large. Doffing his hat and tossing it onto the nearest desktop, Susan blinked at the close shorn hair atop his head. _My lashes are longer than that peach fuzz,_ she thought, eyeballing the scant quarter inch that grazed his scalp. And yet, oddly enough it suited him.

The boys were clamoring like pound puppies for accounts of his many rumored dashing deeds, throwing in the occasional ‘is it true that…’ to get things rolling. Ford seemed grudgingly willing to oblige, as though he were telling the stories to make a point rather than win any. Trying to focus on her filing, Susan still caught stray scraps of the Ford chronicles – more than one of which seemed outlandishly fishy. _Oh Fine’s gonna be sorry he missed this. Hope that blonde was worth it,_ she thought with a smirk, which quickly dissolved into a sigh as she forced her attention back to the task at hand… while keeping an ear on the man at her back.

His voice was almost musical, all skipped consonants and exaggerated ‘ah’s in place of the letter R. It reminded her of jazz, some harsh yet sweet syncopated rhythm in a smoke filled spot. The fact that his eyes were the exact shade of Chock Full o’ Nuts coffee – the heavenly ambrosia that a millionaire’s money currently couldn’t buy for rationing – surprised her only as she realized she was the sudden object of their attention. One eyebrow slid up to his suggestion of a hairline, and he stalked over to her like the panther in the Bronx Zoo.

“Crikey O’Riley, but you’re a plush bird.” Susan fought an irrational blush at the compliment in his roving eyes. “I know that 38-22-38 nonsense is in ‘round here, but gimme a woman with some meat on her bones any day.”

“So you’re a carnivore then, Mr. Ford?”

“Not quite.” An inch from the shell of her ear, his voice dropped an octave from gruff to propositional. “I’m a jungle predator, with a _huge_ appetite for soft things.”

Susan swallowed hard and straightened away from his… mouth. “Well, that’s. That’s nice. We’re all so thrilled you’re here, especially the guys. I know they’ve all been dying to find out how much of the rumors are true.”

“All of ‘em, love. Except for the one about Bolivia - that one’s pure rubbish.”

“Really? _All_ of them?” Now it was Susan’s turn to arch a brow. “Even the one about that arm” she pointed at one sleeve “being completely ripped off, and somehow reattached with _that_ one, using only dental floss and a fountain pen?”

The limb in question flexed under the subtle windowpane check of his suit. “A casual observer might think you didn’t believe me, Miss…”

“Cooper. Susan. And even a casual observer would agree your… ' _anecdotes'_ require a certain suspension of disbelief.”

He leaned in across the gap between them, setting one hand on the file cabinet beside her head and pinning her with that dark roast stare. “I once drove a car off the Royal Albert onto a ferry while it was on fire. Not the car – **_I_** was on fire.”

Susan’s eyes went wide. “Shoot. I’ve met some hard-boiled eggs in my day, but you are twenty minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I decided to get Ford in here, see if that piqued anyone's interest.   
> the good news with being sick is I at least have the time to write whenever inspiration strikes. we're heading into Susan's first assignment, and it's a combination of movie and show. I have a few more chapters ready, and they'll be up soon. I am liking this, even if the response is less than I'd like (and I hate sounding like a comment whore or something, but feedback feeds the writer. to anyone who *has* commented, I do thank you.)  
> Anyway, I'll keep posting and see what happens. hope you're enjoying the ride.


	4. Episode 4: Into the Spider's Web

“Ow. I don’t think – OW! – it’s going to – OWWW!! – fit. Dagnabbit, Fine can you remember that’s my _head_ you’re abusing?”

The agent halted in his attempts to smooth the brunette wig over Susan’s pinned up chestnut curls to smooth her ruffled feathers instead. “Sorry, Coop.”

Wincing as she rubbed the sore spot at her hairline, she scowled at the messy mop. “Where’d you get that thing anyway – a doll shop?”

Fine’s sly smile soured her stomach like bad automat coffee. “Something like that. This little ginger I met a few months back – danced in _Coppelia_ for the Bolshoi. Had a head like a walnut though.”

 _And just as full of nuttin’, I’d say,_ Susan thought bitterly, hating the taste as much as the cause. “Well, it won’t fit mine. I’ve got more _(brains)_ hair.” Digging into her clutch, she produced a manicure set and held out a hand for the wig. “Here, lemme see it.” A ruthless application of her nail scissors to the netted underside, a few strategic nips in the elastic, and several securing bobby pins and Susan found herself staring at a dark-haired version with decided approval. “There. Hmmm… I look good as a brunette.”

“Just adds to the already Snow White image, Coop. Now add your ‘lips as red as blood’ and let’s get crackin.” He tossed her a glittering gold tube and headed for the door. Susan rotated the cool metal until she could read the heavy black title stamped along one side: **_#102- Sweet Dreams._** “Not exactly Max Factor,” she mused, tucking it into her clutch along with a handkerchief and a nickel-plated Derringer before heading out after Fine.

The club was bopping when they stepped inside, and Susan was grateful for the reassuring squeeze Fine gave her shoulders as he helped her out of her wrap. A floor length gown in sparkling champagne highlighted her lush curves, smoothing over pale skin and setting off the dark waves that flowed past her shoulders. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirrored column and was glad she hadn’t had to go blonde – the effect would’ve been far too light. As it was, she looked pretty darn cherce.

Skirting the edge of the dancefloor as Fine took a point position, Susan glided up the carpeted staircase to the guard waiting on the landing before the split. He gave her a once-over and she flashed back a smile.

“I was looking for Mr. Allyn. I brought something he might be… interested in acquiring.” She ran a red-varnished nail over the delicate scrolling edge of the necklace she wore as she spoke, letting her hand gloss over her curves as she returned it to her side. The guard’s eyes caught in the faint shadow of cleavage the dress allowed, then swallowed.

“Ahem. Top of the stairs to the left. First door on the right.”

“Thanks, sugar,” she cooed and continued up to the left, missing the lingering look the guard threw her over his shoulder as she ascended. Pausing at a mirrored table in a little alcove before the office, she gave herself a steadying look and applied the belladonna gloss over her lip rouge. Careful not to lick her lips, she clicked the clutch closed and squared her shoulders as she sauntered through the door.

“Mr. Allyn? Is this a bad time?”

The man seated behind the desk was dark, even through the dim light in the office. Thick falls of jet black hair shone like a raven’s wing above a smoky brow and dark glittering eyes. Even white teeth and the starched snow of his shirt were the only relief to the head to toe shade he bore. “We’ll only know once it’s over. Why don’t you bring the rest of you in here and we’ll find out.”

Susan eased the door closed, trying to steady her nerves and maintain the flirtatious persona she’d adopted with her new look. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

His eyes gave her a once over rover as his head tipped to one side like a puppy smelling fresh meat. “That a fact?”

“You’re in possession of a certain… scientific something, right?”

He instantly went stiffer than a $2 collar. “Okay doll - who the hell are you?”

“Calm down. It’s alright.” She eased over to the desk and perched delicately on the edge, managing a coyly flirtatious smile. “You don’t have to tell me anything. We can make it a game. I guess and if I’m right…”

Spider’s skeletal fingers settled atop her knee like his namesake, and Susan fought back a shudder at the touch. “I get a little reward.”

Clearing her throat, Susan pinned her smile a little tighter and nodded smoothly. “Now, you **are** … in possession of a certain… scientific something, aren’t you?” Spider’s fingers flexed against her knee and crawled up a few inches to rest mid-thigh. “And… you’re looking for a buyer fast because it’s bigger than… the Piazza Navona?”

“The lady knows her Roman architecture. I’m impressed.” His hand turned and found its way to the curve of her hip. “What else you got?”

“It’s here, but it won’t be for long.” Spider’s hand slid up to her waist. “Because Spider Allyn never holds onto anything for very long, and especially not when he could get… _burned._ ” She was worried his hand might take a detour to the front and then she couldn’t be held responsible, but he stood and smoothed his grip up and back to cup her shoulder like some bizarre dance hold. His fingers toyed with the skin between her shoulder blades and she arched into him to get away from the touch. “Ahem. Now, why don’t you tell me where it is, and I’ll give you a real reward for it?”

“I already have a buyer, sweetcakes. So besides the obvious, what do I need you for?”

“Let’s just say…” Susan’s lashes dropped in a calculated move that she pulled right the hell outta nowhere before hitting him with the full force of her gaze. “I can make it _really_ worth your while.”

“Okay.” Susan barely had time for a breath of relief before his lips crashed over hers with the force of an ocean wave, and about as much finesse. The door behind them opened, but Susan couldn’t turn to look before whoever it was mumbled a hasty apology and slipped back out again… just as Spider Allyn released her with a whimper and slumped back into his chair.

She poked him tentatively with a fingertip, then sat back with a sigh. “Well that was… anticlimactic. Now what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, if you’re all done playing patty-cake, I’d suggest we try the safe.” The voice melting out of the darkness startled her to her feet, and she scrabbled for the Derringer before she recognized the voice.

“Ford?!” she squeaked. He materialized out of a dimly lit corner, where he’d apparently had a front row seat for the proceedings of the last few minutes. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Well, not all night or anything. I slipped up to the _en suite_ when I saw you and your cover boy waltz in downstairs. Then I waited for you to pitch up.” He walked over to the unconscious club owner, poking him rather less delicately than Susan had. “Wasn’t expecting you to give the good night kiss, though. We needed more out of him.” Ford shook his head, then stalked to the safe, kneeling down by the massive metal door with a low whistle.

“His over-eagerness isn’t exactly my fault,” Susan grumbled, then shook herself, slid off the desk and stalked to his side, trying not to splutter. “B-but… but… you can’t be here!”

Ford waggled an eyebrow at her and curved one side of his mouth into a smirk. “Well I make a habit of doing things people say I can’t do: walk through fire, ride a motorcycle blindfolded, take up piano at a late age. Now, if you’re done being ungrateful, pass us a bobby pin, alright?”

Tamping down the warring urge to roll her eyes and pray for strength, Susan crouched down beside him and reached for his wrist. Braceleting the limb with her fingers to keep it steady over his quiet protests (even as she noticed he made no effort to pull away) she twisted his watch face a sharp 90 degrees and pried it off. She set the magnetized backing next to the safe dial and pressed a button, watching in anxious fascination as the dial began to spin, unlocking the tumblers in sequence. At the final _thunk_ , she used her handkerchief to turn the handle and pulled the heavy door open.

“Bloody Laura…” Ford breathed.

“It’s the watch Crocker gave you this afternoon. Standard issue for agents in the field over here. Can do all sorts of things if you bothered to read the manual…” Ford’s fingers settled against her jaw and gave her head a quarter turn, whereupon she gasped a little too.

The contents of the safe were not what she’d expected. Some cash, a few stacks of gold bars and a velvet tray of diamond jewelry took up the lower shelf, but the top was filled with papers, memos and a small square box emitting a strange green glow. Settling the box carefully into her handbag, Susan shuffled through the documents trying to find a location, a name, buy agreement - anything.

“Someone’s coming, Coopah – just grab the lot!” Ford hissed, pocketing a sheaf of papers and a gold bar. Susan grabbed the rest and let Ford pull her to her feet before nudging the door shut and slipping into the _en suite_. They watched through the cracked door as the newcomer came to Spider’s aid, rousing him with a fist and calling for security to lock the place down.

“Cheese and crackers, Ford – how’re we gonna get out of this?”

There was a smile teasing the edge of his voice. “Just follow my lead, Coopah.”

They made it down the back stairs without being seen and ended up on the dance floor, smoothly sambaing past a bug-eyed Fine and managing to duck Spider’s clutches until they got outside and into a waiting towncar that sped off once they were inside. Susan’s laughter was breathless with relief, although it quickly subsided when she noticed their surroundings.

“Pretty flash wheels for a government stiff, Ford – you holding out on me?”

“On you, Coopah? Never. It’s a friend’s – he owes me for getting him out of a West End fix a few years ago.”

“Is he in MI6, too?” Susan asked, wide-eyed.

A short bark of laughter preceded Ford’s explanation. “Nah. Phil got roped into backing a show at the Ambassador and ended up in a tug-of-war between the two potential leads. I smoothed out the casting and got him out of the country til press night. So, you hungry? Missions always make me ravenous.”

“Oh I don’t think I could eat. I mean, I’m fin-” Susan broke off with a gasp. “Fine! Ford – we forgot Fine! We gotta go back and get him!” She leaned forward to knock on the window, but Ford smoothly pulled her back and tucked her under his arm.

“Calm down, Susan. He’ll be… fine.” She struggled a little, clearly unconvinced and not appreciated his cheesy humor. He tightened his hold and gentled his tone. “I mean it. That laundry truck parked across the frog? It was full of your guys. They’ll get his bottle out, no sweat.”

Susan puzzled a minute, then used her codebreaker skills and conversations with Nancy to figure his meaning. “Well, as long as he doesn’t end up in the nail because he fought with a bottle and stopper.”

Ford’s laughter echoed out into the street as he directed the driver to the Liberty Bell Co. so they could collect their things.

The lab boys were only too happy to see them, despite the late hour, and gave their word they’d have any information they could on her desk first thing.

She turned down Ford’s reiterated offer for a late bite, and he managed to be a gentleman as he dropped her home, where she fell into bed with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. I meant to have this up a few days ago, and... honestly. Sick. That is all.
> 
> I'm also still sussing out where I'm going with this. I have a few more chapters ready to go; I'm just seeking a stopping point. we'll see how it goes.
> 
> Note: The odd conversation they have at the end is a use of Cockney rhyming slang. ‘Across the frog’ = across the road, since CRS would be ‘frog and toad’ for road. Getting his bottle out? ‘Bottle and glass’ means ass (arse) so basically he’ll be alright. And Susan doesn’t want Fine to end up in the slammer if there’s a misunderstanding with the cops.


	5. Episode 5: Miss Perception and Miss Understanding

The next morning, Susan pitched up in Hollywood casual – large smoked lenses in tortoiseshell frames, hair neatly pinned back with a silk print scarf, an adventurous jacket in supple brown leather, a blouse in smooth eggshell and roll cuff wide-legged chocolate trousers. Molly gave her an approving nod, a few of the boys sent wolf whistles her way, and Cress and Wright took it even further by pretending to swoon at the sight of her in slacks. Rolling her eyes, she set aside the sunglasses and got to work. Barely a quarter hour later, the lab boys called and Susan grabbed her coffee and headed down to Special Projects. Taylor – one of the youngish interns – appeared with a folder, handing it over with a less than subtle once-over from her gleaming curls to her polished black heels.

Eyes scanning the report, Susan asked in a neutral tone, “See anything you like, Taylor?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied hastily. She raised her eyes and her brows to face him, and he went red as a beet. “I mean, _yes_ , ma’am. I mean, I don’t typically see you in… you’re always in those suits. And they suit you! So, this is… different – but nice!”

Eventually Susan took pity on him and patted his arm reassuringly as she swallowed back her giggles. “It’s okay, Taylor. The notes are a bit off, but I got the melody. Thanks a heap.” She raised the folder in a salute and headed over to Stevens for translation.

“What’s up, Doc?”

Dr. Stevens was less than amused by the quip, but then he wasn’t a barrel of monkeys on good days. “Miss Cooper. Further analysis is still pending on exactly what you brought us, but preliminary findings indicate – ”

“It has explosive potential.”

Stevens sighed, “Precisely.”

“And the other formulae we found? Any idea what those might be?”

“Well one or two appear to be variations on the composition of your… luminous oddity, but the rest are hyper-acidic compounds, calculations of debris fields, radiation flow, and some sort of containment unit – looks like a beryllium sphere.”

Susan’s eyes lit up and she grabbed the folder, making for the door like a quarterback. A faint skid was heard, then she reappeared in the doorway for a breathless “thanks, guys” before haring off again.

Arriving back upstairs, she made a beeline for Elaine’s office, pausing to catch her breath at Baxter’s desk. “Is… is she in?”

Baxter watched her mutely, then transferred his paper tiger to one hand and buzzed the intercom twice.

A hint of laughter lit Elaine’s voice as she answered, “Yes, Baxter?” Another double buzz, and she said, “Well who is it?” This time three buzzes was his reply, and Ford’s voice came crackling through after a moment’s pause.

“Is that Coopah? Send her in, man!”

Baxter pushed back and was at the door before Susan could move, holding it open for her. The sight that greeted her was… surprising, to say the least. Crocker was sitting back in her chair, long legs crossed at the ankles on her desk. Ford sat just beside them, half turned towards the door with a smile on his face that probably had as much to do with the two fingers of bourbon he held in one hand as it did the sight of her. Crocker held a matching glass with a similar amount and wore a comparable expression of goodwill as Susan entered.

“What’s shaking, Cooper?”

“Uh… the lab boys… finished their preliminary report on the… thing we found last night at Spider’s club.”

“Oh, right! Ford was just filling me in.” Elaine punctuated the statement with a soft slap on Ford’s knee, which he caught and pressed a kiss to before releasing her. Elaine smiled, then turned the beam on Susan and lifted her glass. “I knew you could do it, Cooper. Job well done.” She took a sip, looked as though she were about to say something, then caught Ford’s eye and the two dissolved into giggles.

Susan waited for the worst to pass, then cleared her throat in the available quiet. The pair looked at her and she held up the folder. “It’s kind of important. Ma’am.”

With the long-suffering sigh of children being told playtime is over Elaine and Ford straightened off her desk and sat up, Ford leaning against the windowsill just past Elaine’s left shoulder. “Alright, Cooper. Go ahead.”

She quickly outlined what Stevens had told her, ending with the note about the beryllium sphere as she handed over the folder. Ford planted a hand on the desk and read over Crocker’s shoulder, then looked up at Susan. “And what’s so significant about a beryllium sphere? I have a feeling you know.”

“Actually, I do. It’s an amplifying containment unit. It can hold a pretty substantial and unstable explosive, but it could also enhance the blast if the compounds are right. There’d be a sort of implosion, where the molecular bonds are breached, then you’d have a whopper of a boom. And I just happen to know where one can be found.”

“Where?” they asked together.

“NYU. There’s a special department there being led by a total lech, but he’s brilliant and he’s got a beryllium sphere. If Boyanov needed a containment unit I can pretty much guarantee he’d go through this guy.”

“Coopah, you’re a genius!” Ford cried, then swept to her side and pressed a tumbler into her hand. “Have a drink.”

Susan moved the glass before the bottle could reach it. “Ford, it’s… half past 9 in the morning.”

He shrugged brightly and tried for her glass again. “I’m still on London time,” he chorused with Crocker, and the two broke up again.

Her eyes shut a second as she gathered her calm around her like a wool coat. “You two enjoy your… tea party. I’ll take Fine to check it out.” Susan set down her empty glass with a thunk and walked out. Ford was on her heels in a moment.

“Come on, Cooper – don’t be like that. E and me, we’re just pals.”

Susan skidded to a halt when his meaning sank in. “Y-you think I’m… jealous? Of you and Crocker? Applesauce! I just don’t approve of drinking on the job. Before ten in the morning. Now excuse me – I have _work_ to do.” She tried to push past but he caught her wrist, twisting her into his arms like they were back on the dancefloor, his voice pitched low in her ear.

“And what kind of work would that be, hmmm? The lads around here treat you like a secretary and worse. At least I let you do your stuff, your _real_ work. And you got me as back-up – what more could you want?”

Oh, that voice. Something about being in his hold was making Susan wriggle like a worm on a hook – and it wasn’t just knowing the eye of everyone in the place was on their little scene. Ducking out of his arms, she stood her ground a short distance away and pinned him with a look. “How about a little _respect_ , Ford? Or a partner I can count on without… ulterior motives? Jeez Louise, y-you, you’re gruff, brash, arrogant and a complete… ass!”

His hand flew to his heart like her words had wounded him – despite the undercutting glee at having successfully pushed her buttons. “I respect you, Coopah. And besides…” The glint in his eye lent a leering edge to his grin. “You wouldn’t have me any other way, love.”

Rolling her eyes, she somehow tapped into a heroine of the silver screen and snapped back, “Ford I wouldn’t _have_ you if your cock could cure polio!” A rousing chorus of hoots and whoops erupted from the boys assembled nearby, who had been watching like DiMaggio was on third. Despite the constant exposure she had around here Susan was not the sort to say such things, and she couldn’t tell who was more shocked by the outburst – herself or everyone else.

The blush that bloomed actually overtook her cosmetic mask, and shutting her mouth with a squeak she turned and stalked back to the relative safety of her desk. She refused to meet anyone’s eye, and so missed Fine waving the boys off before heading out. She wouldn’t look at Ford, and so didn’t see him standing there gobsmacked for a full ten seconds before he gave his lapels a vicious yank and headed back to Crocker’s office.

Pushing aside the incident and the nagging knowledge she should be out pursuing her beryllium lead, she lost herself in the mind-numbing monotony of manual tasks until her stomach – and Nancy – interrupted in a way as not to be denied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - but I promise I'm not spreading the Ford hate. I'm gonna... go hide in my pillow fort for awhile.
> 
> also, I broke this up a bit, so Episode 6 will cover Susan's continuing adventures when she gets back from lunch.


	6. Episode 6: Get the Lead Out

Susan and her best gal scarpered to a little café not far from the office, and thanks to fresh peach cobbler and good company she felt much better when she got back. A small red lotus was blooming on her desk when she returned, resting atop a note to visit Crocker ASAP. She tucked the flower beside its purple counterpart, checked her smile in her compact and headed over.

“Cooper, your intel was right. We sent a team to NYU to talk to your contact, but his lab is packed up and no one’s seen him since last night. One of the papers you pulled from Spider’s safe had coordinates for a warehouse in Midtown. You’re gonna be leading the team – Smith, Wright and Young.”

 _At least I don’t have to deal with Cress, but…_ “Not Fine or Ford?”

It might have been her imagination, but Elaine seemed to have a second’s hesitation before replying. “Ford thought you two might need a little… time apart, and Fine’s… working another angle for us.” Anything Susan might’ve said in response was cut off by Crocker’s sudden tone shift. “Gear’s waiting for you in the lab. You leave in an hour.”

Collecting herself, Susan gave a tight nod. “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t let you down.”

“There’s the usual complement of weapons and smoke grenades but we lab rats cooked up a few things just for you.” Taylor handed over a small black duffel as Stevens filled her in on the contents. “Perfume atomizer with a pepper infusion – just aim for the eyes. Reinforced jacket tailored to your measurements – 10% titanium, and the weave in the material should stop most small blades.”

Susan was genuinely touched. “Thanks, guys. Truly.”

“Get the lead out, Cooper. We gotta change!” Wright’s voice grated in her ear, but he had a point. With a final grateful smile, she turned and followed the team.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a ladies’ locker room where she could change in peace, and she didn’t want to chance changing in the conference room upstairs or the ladies’ room in the lobby where anyone could walk in. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and strode into the men’s, ignoring their clamor as they clutched their clothes.

“Good night, such a fuss! Don’t any of you goons have sisters?”

“None that look like you, Coop,” Wright supplied.

“And what should that have to do with the price of tea in China? It’s a tactical mission; I’m not going for my looks.”

“Actually, you kinda are,” Smith’s voice oozed over the top of the locker bank. “The boys we’re after will probably go for a skirt, or at least focus on one. Crocker said to ditch the striders and show off the stems.”

“Oh, _honestly_ ” Susan mumbled, rooting in her pack for the necessary switch, straightening with a crooked smile. “ _Well_ I might be wearing a skirt, boys, but just remember who’s wearing the pants on this one, okay?”

Several feet over their heads, Crocker’s voice rang out across the office, dragging several conversations to a standstill. “Cooper!”

Fine pushed off from the edge of Susan’s unoccupied desk and headed towards the boss. “Something I can do for you, ma’am?”

Crocker flicked her eyes up and down him like a searchlight before indicating the folder in Baxter’s paw. “Got a file she’ll need for the mission. Maps, analysis report, blueprints, all known bogey dope. I didn’t want to leave it out here.”

“The gang headed down to the locker room ten minutes ago to spivvy for the mission. I can take it to her, ma’am.”

Exhaling through her nose, Crocker tossed an indifferent hand in his direction and headed back to her office. Fine made for the folder, but halted when Baxter let out an audible growl. Taking a step back, Fine patiently extended his hand for the file. It was dropped into his waiting palm with a soft grunt and a hard look, then Baxter turned to follow Crocker.

After a brisk skip down the stairs he stepped into the locker room, faint traces of cologne and sweat greeting him along with the cluster of stripped down agents. He nodded to them and kept going, calling out to Susan.

“Just a minute, Fine.” He was already around the edge of the red painted lockers by the time the reply registered. “Bloody Laura!” Susan’s hands whipped up to cover herself as she turned to face the wall. “Kinda half-done here, Fine.”

In prep for the skirt she was about to don, she was wearing a brassiere and a half slip, leaving miles of creamy skin on display. Unused to a woman without the proper foundations, Fine’s eyes traversed the expanse of bare back, snagging like a cuff on razor wire at the barely visible line of blue ink just above the curve of one hip.

“Fine!” she implored over her shoulder.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Belatedly turning his back, he held up the thick folder. “Crocker sent you a going away present; I said I’d bring it down.”

The slide of fabric and the rasp of a zipper preceded her quiet reply. “Oh. Well thanks. You can just leave it on the bench.”

Two steps back brought him proud of the polished wood, and he set the folder down without turning. Straightening, he caught another glimpse of her in the wavery mirror at the far end of the locker room, watching him over her shoulder as she smoothed a stocking.

“Anything else?” He snapped back to attention, shooting his cuffs in a manner he hoped was nonchalant.

“Nah. Just… have a safe trip, okay?”

A hint of a smile was clear in her voice. “Sure thing, Fine. Thanks again.”

He was past the corner of the lockers when he realized something. Stepping back around, he caught her snatching the folds of the reinforced jacket close around her. “What now?”

“Bloody Laura, Coop?”

His knowing look met a shy smile until she rolled her eyes and dropped her gaze. “Take a powder, Fine,” she directed without any real heat.

A wagging finger paired with his smirk. “You’ve been spending too much time with Ford.” Parting shot delivered, he strolled out the door whistling a juke joint jaunt.

20 minutes later a cluster of boys crowded at the windows and watched the team exit like heroes out of the comics. Susan, dressed in dapper black with skirt swinging, stood in the center of an arrow of men attired with similar sharpness.

After three hours they came limping back, a little worse for wear but bearing two important prizes: the crate containing the beryllium sphere, and the man who’d put it there. Now all they needed was the device it was supposed to contain and they’d be top notch. The clock was ticking quick and with less than 48 hours to go, they knew they needed more information pronto. Crocker turned Cress and Ford loose in the interrogation room, and an hour later, Cress came out looking a little less white than the paper he held in his hand while Ford glared at the blood patterning his knuckles.

Cress passed off the hard-won intel to Susan and headed unsteadily for the bathroom. She tried to suss out the shaky scrawl, ignoring the dark stains in the lower corner, but the unmistakable feel of eyes on her eventually dragged her gaze. The force of the stare Ford fired in her direction hit her like a freight train, and she shivered as he took a step closer… then stopped. _Rick Ford asking_ **any** _form of permission to approach?_ She had to be dreaming. All the same, she reached under her cuff – eyes never leaving his – and produced a spring green handkerchief which she handed over wordlessly. His gaze flicked from her face to the fabric and back again.

Then he raised the small square to his nose, inhaled a spare second, and slid it into his breast pocket. Wright walked over to ask… something but was cut off by Ford’s sharp snap in front of his nose. He was promptly relieved of his own crisp white linen and watched as Ford applied it to the residue of his interrogation. Wright took himself elsewhere in a hurry and the report fluttered in Susan’s hand like a wounded bird’s wing, startling her. She turned to go when…

“Coopah.” His tone was low and pleading, a sentiment matched in the molten chocolate of his eyes. _“Susan.”_

The tip of her tongue painted over her lips as she fought to quell the quiver in her throat. “Ford, I…” A flurry of reflected movement caught her attention. “I gotta go,” she rushed and whirled as Crocker and Baxter entered.

She passed off the material and fled; she needed to talk to Nancy. _Now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys. I'm back. Sorry about the delay; just... think of it as Susan taking a long, looooooong lunch.  
> Anyway, the continuing adventures of my 40s' SPY division will be ... continuing soon. Hope you still like it.


End file.
